Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse eBook

Across the battle-field is borne a dull and muffled
sound,
The fielder like a bullock falls, the ball rolls on
the ground.
Around the bases on the wing the gallant Muggsy speeds,
And follows swiftly in the track where fast his comrade
leads.
And from the field of chaos where the dusty billows
float,
With calm, majestic mien there stalks O’Reilly’s
billy-goat.

Above the crags of Shantytown the flaunting pennant
waves,
And cheering myriads chant the praise of Muggsy’s
lusty braves.
The children shout in gladsome glee, each fair one
waves her hand,
As down the street the heroes march with lively German
band;
But wilder grows the tumult when, with ribboned horns
and coat,
They see, on high in triumph borne, O’Reilly’s
billy-goat.

* * * *
*

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

When Ezry, that’s my sister’s son, come
home from furrin parts,
He fetched the folks a lot of things ter brighten
up their hearts;
He fetched ’em silks and gloves and clothes,
and knick-knacks, too, a
stock,
But all he fetched fer us was jest a fancy cuckoo
clock.
’T was all fixed up with paint and gilt, and
had a little door
Where sat the cutest little bird, and when ’t
was three or four
Or five or six or any time, that bird would jest come
out
And, ‘cordin’ ter what time it was, he’d
flap his wings and shout:
“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!
Hoo-hoo!”

Well, fust along we had it, why, I thought ’twas
simply prime! And used to poke the hands around
ter make it “cuckoo” time; And allers
when we’d company come, they had ter see the
thing, And, course they almost had a fit when “birdie”
come ter sing. But, by and by, b’gosh!
I found it somehow lost its joys, I found it kind
er made me sick to hear that senseless noise; I wished
’t was jest a common clock, that struck a gong,
yer know, And didn’t have no foolish bird ter
flap his wings and go:
“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!
Hoo-hoo!”

Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I’m
free ter grant, I’d smash it into kindlin’,
but a present, so, I can’t! And, though
a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, That
thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter
swear! I try ter be religious and ter tread the
narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when
I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven
go a-tumblin’ down ter,—­well, A different
kind of climate—­when that bird sets out
ter yell:
“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!
Hoo-hoo!”

I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home,
The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come
And pestered him about ter death and made him sick
and sore, By settin’ on his mantel-piece and
hollerin’ “Nevermore!” But, say,
I’d ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and
row, His bellerin’ had some sense, b’gosh!
’T was English, anyhow; And all the crows
in Christendom that talked a Christian talk Would
seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin
squawk:
“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!
Hoo-hoo!”